The world-famous email column

Issue #33 – “Who’s Who” – December 2002

-In this column I have often written about the awkward situations I find myself in, and the strange thoughts I find myself having. But nothing compares to the inspiration I receive from observing people as they go about their daily routines. From the guy on the corner who magically appears selling umbrellas the second it starts raining, to my roommate Brian who claims he can tell the difference between 1% and 2% milk just on sight, New York’s cast of characters is both diverse and hilarious. And I’ve been taking notes. So here’s my official “Who’s Who” guide to my friends and foes…

-Five of my closest friends are in medical school. Here’s all you need to know about med school kids. They disappear for six to eight weeks at a time. During that time, the only human contact they have is with lab partners, Domino’s deliverymen, and cadavers. When med school kids reappear, it is without notice. They just randomly show up at the bar one night, get drunker then everyone else, then pass out and disappear again. Med school kids also have no concept of money. However, I don’t really blame them. If you’re already close to a quarter of a million dollars in debt by the time you’re twenty-three, I guess it’s OK if your mom pays your cable bill.

-Three of my best friends are fraternal triplets. I’ve known them for most of my life and even went to Penn with two out of the three (hey, nobody’s perfect right?). I think one of the best parts about being a triplet is that you have built-in wingmen. All you have to do is go out with your brothers and you’ve already got two accomplices to help reel in the ladies. Since they don’t look extremely similar, many times when I go out with all three of them people don’t believe me when I tell them that they’re triplets. I never understood this. What do you think I’ve got some sort of racket going where I go from bar to bar with three unrelated kids and pretend that they’re brothers?

-I am fascinated by bathroom attendants. To me, this is a sign that the economy is so bad we’ve been reduced to just making up jobs. Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that I really do need baby powder, condoms, six varieties of mints, and twenty different kinds of cologne every time I use the bathroom. I certainly don’t need all that stuff handed to me. And I definitely don’t want to tip this guy every time I take a piss. It’s like a urinal tollbooth in there.

-I belong to a New York subculture that I have coined the “Big Ten.” The Big Ten consists of everyone in Manhattan between the ages of 22 and 26 who went to Michigan, Wisconsin, Indiana, Penn, Cornell, GW, Florida, Emory, Binghamton or Syracuse. Whenever you go to a bar in Big Ten territory (roughly 15th to 50th on the east side), each member of the Big Ten must send a representative. It’s sort of like the Olympics. We even have our own uniforms. For guys, it’s Diesel jeans with the classic blue button down shirt, untucked with the sleeves rolled up slightly. For girls, it’s those pointy-toed elf shoes, a little shoulder bag tucked snugly under the left armpit, and, if it’s raining, one of those stupid caps with the small brim. We even have our own holiday, Thanksgiving Eve, which, for the Big Ten, is the second biggest night of the year behind New Year’s.

-I have a lot of friends in law school. Here’s what I know about law school kids. For some reason I feel immature around law school kids who are my age. I don’t know why, maybe it’s because the guys wear loafers and the girls have Palm Pilots. I do know this, though, law school kids bitch and moan more than any other grad students (“Oh my God, I have so much Contracts reading to do!”). Also, for some reason, I’ve noticed that law school guys are more likely to have those wooden things that you put inside your shoes to keep their shape. Don’t ask me why, but it’s true.

-A bunch of people I know aren’t in grad school, they just like taking entrance exams. First they took the GREs, then the GMATs, now they’re on to the LSATs. They’re like professional test-takers. These people also happen to live in the nicest apartments, even though they don’t have jobs. I wonder how they swing that.

-I rely on the deli down the block from me for many of my meals. It is usually the same guy who serves me every time. This guy makes a great sandwich but he does have one very strange trait. He doesn’t understand modifiers. So if I say, “No ketchup, lightly salted, extra bacon,” all he hears is, “Ketchup, salt, bacon.” It’s the weirdest thing. You know how hard it is to order a sandwich without using modifiers? It’s a grammatical nightmare.

-I’ve noticed a lot people wear headphones all day long, no matter what they are doing. I’ve even seen two people walking, both listening to headphones, and having a conversation with each other at the same time. This must take a lot of skill. I don’t know how they do it. I can barely ride an elevator and listen to my Discman at the same time.

-It seems like everyone I know that isn’t in grad school or a professional test-taker, is an investment banker. If you’ve never worked in an investment bank, as I have, you may be fooled into thinking this is a glamorous and difficult job to do. It’s not. I’m going to let you in on a little secret. If you’re under twenty-five and work as a banker, this is what you do all day: copy and paste numbers from one Excel spreadsheet to another, proofread, spell check and page number documents, and fudge expense reports to enable you and your friends to eat as much free food as possible. That’s it. Bankers are also notorious liars. For instance, first-year bankers will say, “Sure, the hours are tough, but I love my job and I’m learning a lot.” Liar. Second-year bankers will say, “Oh man, I am definitely not going to stay a third year. No way.” Liar. Third-year bankers will say, “I just stayed so I that I could take my GMATs, besides I love my job and I’m learning a lot.” Liar. But hey, they do get a BlackBerry and I can’t compete with that.

-An important term to learn if you live in New York is “B&T.” B&T, short for “bridge and tunnel,” is a derogatory term used by people in Manhattan to describe people from New Jersey, Brooklyn, Queens, and Long Island who come to Manhattan (via bridge or tunnel) to party on the weekends. Used in a sentence, someone in the Big Ten might say, “Oh God, this bar is sooo B&T.” You might wonder how we can tell if someone is a B&Ter or not. You’ll just have to trust me, we can tell. The Big Ten vs. The B&T crowd is a vicious rivalry. However, being that I am originally from Long Island, I am a former B&Ter myself, so I tend to cut these guys some slack.

-Here are some people that irk, annoy, or otherwise piss me off. People who write on wide-ruled paper. People who change their answering machine message when they go on vacation but then forget to change it back for a month after they return. People who order dressing on the side. People who try to bum cigarettes off of me even though I don’t smoke. Smokers who complain about other smokers bumming cigarettes off of them. People who set the treadmill to a really high speed but then hang on to the bar for dear life as they try to keep up. Thirty-year-old chicks with belly button rings. Guys who blow-dry their hair. People who call you to ask for a phone number but then don’t have a pen ready when you give it to them. People who carry both cell phones and beepers. Cab drivers and deliverymen who claim they don’t have change for a twenty. People who brag about how few books they’ve read. People who prefer Raisinets over Goobers. People who wear sneakers to work then change into shoes when they get there. Pitchers who can’t hit for shit. People who act like they’re having an epileptic seizure when they win a radio contest. People who set their watches to beep every hour. And finally, people who hide the kitchen garbage can in the cabinet below the sink. What can I say, I’m a difficult man to please.

-One of my friends keeps telling me I should try taking a spinning class at the gym. I’m always like, come on, I’m lifting weights here, spinning is for chicks. The other day I was at the gym and I saw a bunch of pretty cute girls go into the spinning room, so I decided to take the class. Hey, I played high school soccer, how tough could this be? There, at the front of the room, was the man who would become my arch nemesis: Stefan, the spinning instructor from hell. Wearing a headset microphone, he could only be described at a stationary bike televangelist, barking orders from his pulpit as Acapulco-style trance music blasted from the stereo. With a thick German accent, he yelled things like, “And 8, and 5, and 3, 2, 1, out of the saddle, now break away!” and started pedaling furiously. Meanwhile I’m thinking, oh God, fuck me, fuck me, help, my quads are exploding, make it stop, why aren’t any of these chicks hyperventilating like me? By the end of the 45-minute session my body had reached the dew point – I was saturated with sweat. But I’ll be back Stefan, oh yes, I’ll be back. Maybe.

-You can’t miss the guys running around the city with the straps of their overstuffed black leather laptop bags clinging desperately to the shoulder pads of their suit jackets. While their origin may vary, most likely these dudes have the unfortunate distinction of being in sales or IT. They can usually be spotted leaving Wendy’s while simultaneously talking on their cell phone earpieces and hailing a cab. Approach with caution.

-One of my good friends is in culinary school. Now there is a noble vocation. The only time I use a kitchen utensil is to stir a mixed drink, so I am completely awed by what he learns. And he doesn’t disappear for months on end like med schools kids, bitch and moan like law school kids, or lie to himself like investment bankers. There’s no standardized entrance exam, no laptop bags, just funny chef hats and damn good food. Now that, my friends, is living.

-As always, here are random some things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-I get really frustrated when I call someone’s cell phone but they’re sleeping and don’t wake up. You kind of want to yell when their voicemail picks up even though you know they can’t hear you. So you just hope it beeps really loud.

-Do you think that if I wear that deodorant body spray chicks will really ravage me in the elevator like in that commercial?

-I was at my parent’s house in Long Island a few weeks ago. As I was getting the mail, I accidentally dropped an envelope and it fluttered into the living room. As I went to go get it, I was paralyzed with fear. You see, when I was growing up, I wasn’t allowed in the living room, especially after it had been cleaned. When I saw the fresh vacuum lines in the rug I had a flashback to being yelled at as a little kid for making footprints on the carpet. I think I’m scarred for life.

-How come every deli or fast food joint in New York has at least one word spelled wrong in the window?

-Three things I’ve been pondering about the gym. First, why are there sometimes arbitrary numbers on the weights in the machines instead of the amount of pounds? Is this so you can never join a different gym because you’ll have to learn a whole new system? Second, when I joined my gym, they gave me a free t-shirt. Are you allowed to work out wearing a shirt with the gym logo on it or is that like wearing the t-shirt of the band when you go to their concert? Third, why are the dudes who walk around naked in the locker room always the nastiest and hairiest guys in there?

-For some reason, people get very offended when I tell them I don’t know how to drive stick. I’ve never understood this obsession with manual transmissions. Why would I ever want to drive stick? No one can ever explain to me the advantage. They just always say, “Well, you have more control over the car.” More control? You’re telling me you have more control over the car by shifting gears when it “feels” right than a sophisticated computer that adjusts automatically? Now that doesn’t make any sense at all.

-People who leave their cars on the street with tape covering their broken windows are obviously too trusting. I mean, when your car did have glass for a window, someone broke into it. How is tape any more of a deterrent? What are the thieves going to say? “Ooh, that like looks like duct tape, we can’t beat that. Let’s look for one with scotch or masking.”

-Who do you think will win the contest for most albums released without actually recording any new songs, Tupac or Aerosmith?

-How come they never have my size in the pair of sneakers I want? Whenever I finally pick out the style I like, I tell the guy I want to try on a ten and a half. Inevitably, the guy will come back like ten minutes later and say, “Well, I only have an eight or a fourteen in the pair you want, or I do have a ten and a half, but they’re purple and gold. Do you want to try those?” Uh, no thanks.

-I just got a new pair of jeans. This is my first pair of button-fly jeans. It is definitely going to take some getting used to. I mean, I have to take my whole package out just to take a piss. It’s bad enough the bathroom attendant is looking at me, now I have to deal with this, too? And you if don’t do the buttons right, you can’t just make a quick adjustment like you could if you forgot to zipper your fly, you need to completely unbutton and start over. Boy, I sure do miss the zip.

-Overall, 2002 has been a banner year for me. A new career. A hit book. Good times with friends and family. Trips to Rio, Glasgow, and South Beach. More booze and chicks than I could handle or remember. Since I spent last New Year’s in the hospital getting my appendix out, I figured I deserve to close out this year with a bang. So I’m going to Las Vegas. When I tell people that I am going to Vegas for New Year’s and that I’ve never been there before, the response is always the same, “Oh man Karo, you’re gonna lose your mind dude!” I hope so. All I know is whenever I talk to my roommate about the trip, all we keep saying over and over again is, “Vegas baby, Vegas!”

-I think the way you can tell if a guy and girl are in a serious relationship is whether or not they have black and white pictures of themselves together. That’s the real test. Because it takes effort to get nice black and white photos. If you’ve gone that far, there’s no turning back.

-Here’s another little trick I picked up. You can tell how nice an area you’re in is by how much “fast cash” the ATM offers you. The ATMs at the bank down the street from me offer $100 fast cash. At college, it was $60. Last month I was in a seedy part of Los Angeles, and the ATM offered only $35 fast cash. I took my money and got the hell out of there!

-This Thanksgiving I decided to do something that I’ve never done before. I shut my cell phone off and left it home all day. I was thinking, well, it’s the holidays and I don’t want to be bothered. You know what happened? I kept hearing my phone ring and feeling it vibrate all day even though it wasn’t with me. It was like when people lose a limb but get that phantom feeling of still having it. I must have checked my pocket like twenty times. It was actually worse that taking my phone with me.

-Isn’t it amazing how fast the snow turns brown as soon as it hits the ground in New York?

-Have you ever been watching a new episode of Saturday Night Live and thought to yourself, wait a minute, what the fuck am I doing home right now?

-I am fortunate enough to still be really close with all of my boys from high school. We are the most competitive bunch of kids I have ever met. Everything is a bet, contest, or argument. Here’s something we’ve been arguing about since eleventh grade. One of my friends, Eric, made a bet that Brian couldn’t break 1400 on his SATs. Brian ended up getting exactly 1400. Eric claims that getting 1400 is technically not “breaking 1400,” and that a 1410 was needed to win the bet. This has become a point of contentious debate for over six years now, with no resolution in sight. I personally believe that getting 1400 is breaking 1400. What do you think?

-My college buddies are obsessed with fantasy sports to the point that I’m actually worried about them. Here’s an example. My friend Jeremy was at this club and bumped into Kurt Thomas of the Knicks. Now if I met Kurt Thomas, I’d be getting his autograph, taking pictures with him, etc., but not Jeremy. Here is their conversation. Jeremy: Hey, you’re Kurt Thomas! Thomas: Yeah. Jeremy: It’s great to meet you. Thomas: Thanks dog. Jeremy: You know, I have you on my fantasy basketball team. Thomas: Word? Jeremy: Yeah, listen, I was wondering if I could ask you a favor. Thomas: What? Jeremy: I’m in second place, and I could really use some more blocks from you. Thomas: More blocks? No doubt, I’ll see what I can do. Jeremy: Thanks man, have a good night. That’s a true story. A few days later, Thomas had the most in blocks in one game of his career. He must have done it all for Jeremy.

-How come I am completely unable to operate the doors of other people’s apartments? You know, when you go to leave and you turn the knob that you’re not supposed to touch and then turn the other knob the wrong way and then you lock yourself in even more and you can’t remember which way you turned what and you end up yanking helplessly at the door until your friend mercifully comes to your rescue and lets you out.

-The “unplug decision” is one of the more difficult decisions that you must make in your life. This occurs when you crash at a friend’s place and you have to decide which of his appliances you are going to unplug because you need to charge your phone and all of the outlets are full. I tend to look for something that doesn’t need resetting or recalibration. Definitely stay away from VCRs and alarm clocks. Halogen lights and toasters are always a popular choice. Of course, once you choose your victim you need to play that little game where you try to trace the plug from the back of the appliance all the way to the surge protector. This usually involves diving behind entertainment centers and doing the “wiggle test” where you shake the plug from the top and then see which one moves at the bottom. These are all technical terms of course.

-And, finally, here is a prime example of why I feel strongly that you should never lie to chicks about your age. Triplet #1 and I were at this dive bar downtown that is frequented by NYU chicks. While I was distracted by a game of Golden Tee, Triplet #1 approached a bunch of girls and asked them if they went to NYU. They said they were first-years. Not wanting to intimidate a bunch of freshmen by telling them we were twenty-three, Trip 1 lied and said we were juniors at NYU. When I joined the conversation, I was then forced to continue the charade. As I talked to one of the girls, I realized that something was terribly wrong. These chicks weren’t freshmen at NYU, they were first-years at NYU Med. We had just lied ourselves younger than them. Fuck me!